


Choirgirl Interlude: Not Exactly Had

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: The Choirgirl Set [8]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Multi, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Series, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:51:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully makes some decisions. Part of the Choirgirl Set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choirgirl Interlude: Not Exactly Had

**Author's Note:**

> "Who is the third who walks always beside you?  
> When I count, there are only you and I together  
> But when I look ahead up the white road  
> There is always another one walking beside you"  
> \--T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

 

The sun is shining, my head is aching, the sheets are tangled around my body obscenely, and the radio is telling me traffic around the Beltway is a  nightmare, as usual. Good morning and welcome to the first circle of hell.

Yeah, I'm in the right place.

He left me. Never mind I told him to leave, never mind I basically told him my way or the highway and my way was about as appealing as dry rock without water. I never thought he would, never could have dreamed Mulder would  abandon his quests and his world for love. If it is love and not a nightmare  created for me.

For I have been left to survive his leaving, the person who cares about "the quest" or "the Project" or whatever it is out there. And why shouldn't I  care? These are the people who have taken my life and given it to Mulder, taken  my body and given it to the devil and left me with little more than a shrewish  anger and a cold, empty need to know. Each injustice drives me a little further  along their slickly paved pathways to Hell.

But this is my life now, burrowing into the darkness and looking deeply into the abyss. Without the poetry, I'm trying to be Mulder now. I'm looking for Samantha, I'm looking for the men who placed this chip in my neck,  and I've discovered I was never more than a sidekick. There are no contacts out  there, no men in black waiting to whisper the faintest of hints in my ear, and I  simply plod along, finding the next crumb of gingerbread.

It's a dull life, and an increasingly pathetic one. Skinner hints at me about getting a new partner, but I think he wants me to pair up with Jeffrey Spender of all people, and I can't do that. It would be like having the worst of Mulder and myself tagging along behind me, as if the guy  were our demon spawn. But I can't do this alone much longer. The boredom and the  frustration are getting out of hand and I don't have much recourse for release.

So I have a day. I work. I investigate. I walk down the corridors of the Hoover  building and feel the eyes follow. I would have never guessed two lone agents  sitting in a basement were so damn interesting. Maybe the rest of the Bureau is  so dull that Flukemen, past lives, and aliens are of burning interest.

I take to the Beltway at the proper time, right when the entire city decides to go home and we all fight our way back to the safety of our own homes,  the numbness of our own safe existence. I listen to NPR until I can't stand any  more elitist babbling and switch it to the most inane and indistinguishable pop  station I can find. Keep me away from all the sharp edges just for now.

Time will heal these wounds. I know that. But right now I miss Mulder and I'm  very alone in the world. The radio decides to annoy me while I'm depressed,  which is never a good idea.

"You're still the one I run to-- the one that I belong to-- still the one I kiss  good-night--" a twangy voice chirps over the radio. I viciously turn the radio  off. I consider going on a mission to take out all Canadian divas momentarily,  but decide that would be cruel and unusual. Though capping Celine Dion might  actually be worth it--

My apartment, again unremarkably, is dark and full of ghosts. They actually seem to hover in the air, ready to tell me all. But I chase them out of  my head by flicking on a light switch and making dinner for one. My life is so  exciting that a new episode of ER will make my week. Dana Scully, you are a sad,  codependent ex-girlfriend, I think as I go through my refrigerator for  leftovers, find none, and decide to make a baked potato and an elaborate chicken  salad. Maybe a slice of chocolate creme pie, too.

But even the sad, cautious and bitter have a few alternatives. After I lose interest in NBC Must-See Thursday, I sink down into the cushions of my  couch and massage my neck half-heartedly, as the beautifully pornographic movie camera in my head starts running my favorite blue fantasy.

Mulder comes back. He wanders in the door, looking dirty and unshaven. He looks  at me and makes that face. It's hard to explain the face, but it just makes me  swoon.

We don't break into any explanations or apologies. They're too much and I can't  imagine what we'd say. "Sorry I screwed Krycek"? or "Sorry I drove you out of  town for cheating on me"? I just get off the couch and jump him. There's no  better way to describe it. I drag his lying, cheating, delicious mouth down to  mine and kiss him until I can't breathe.

My hands flutter over my throat unconsciously, well aware of their part in this  fantasy. I close my eyes and try to recall the smell of Mulder, especially desperate, half-mad, aroused Mulder as he finds my hands and pulls them up over my head. He regards me quizzically.

"Welcome home," I finally manage to say with a smile.

"Good to be back," he replies, picking me up bodily and dragging me into the  bedroom. "Good to see you."

"Yeah," I say breathlessly as he throws me on the bed. "Yeah."

And wouldn't it be so easy to sink deeper into this familiar world? The familiar  tearing away of the clothes, the hungry kisses devouring each other's skin, snatching breath from the other? Couldn't I just give in and let  my frantic hands grow larger and rougher as they sled down my neck to my breasts  and then to my stomach, tracing circles and stars on a living slate of flesh?

It's so easy to believe he'll come to his senses one morning, lying next to that  lying devil, that monster in black leather. He'll look over and it'll hit him.  Krycek is evil. And then Mulder will come back. I'm his compass and his friend,  he'll know he can come back and I'll forgive him--

As my hands reach the tops of my thighs, I suddenly refuse to make it easy. He is not coming back. I told him to go. Krycek may be evil, but he wants  Mulder and he'll hold on tight to him. The sooner I realize the door will never  open unexpectedly, the sooner I move forward in my life again. We did not love  each other enough. I didn't love enough and he wasn't worth it, I tell myself as  I stroke closer to my clit.

Not coming back, he's not coming back, I chant to myself, pressing two fingers  deep. And I'm better off. I may not be leaping across chasms toward the truth, but I'm finding the ways, moving closer to the lie and the explanation that has so colored-- so colored--

I writhe against my fingers, pumping against them angrily as my other hand reaches out to just the right spot-- oh yes-- I rub furiously, trying to erase the thoughts in my head I'm tired of thinking and rethinking. Life continues whether or not I'm happy, there's still a tomorrow whether or not Mulder walks through that door again, and the moon still hangs in the sky no matter where I end up.

I start stroking harder and faster, driving out anything except myself. Oh God, oh God, I can't think of anything else right now I don't want to-- I won't-- and then I come, my body shuddering and tightening around my fingers as the sensation shivers through my entire body and I pump just a little more but finally pull away. I sigh.

"Virtuoso performance," Alex Krycek's voice says clinically from behind me. "But why would you be so quiet while you're alone?"

I sit bolt upright and stare. The world has indeed turned upside down, and I've  been caught fucking myself by the *last* person on Earth (except for my mother)  I'd ever want to be caught by.

"Get out!" I say rather stupidly.

"I've already seen the whole show, why would I?" he asks, shrugging.

"What are you doing here? Where's Mulder? What are you doing here?"

"You said that already, remember?" he asks with a snicker. "Why don't you go  clean yourself off, Dana? I didn't mean to embarrass you, but you were a little  busy when I walked in-- I figure you'll be in a better mood now."

I stare at the floor as I stand up. I don't want to do what he says, but I  really, really need to clean myself up. Besides, my spare weapon is in my  bedroom drawer. If he's playing a game, I'll play one right back-- inflicting  non-deadly injuries in excruciatingly painful places.

"Welcome back. Feeling better?" Krycek asks when I return. He's holding a gun. I'm holding a gun. It's just like old times.

"Krycek--"

"Okay, okay, you're all business," he says. "It's so nice to see you again. What's it been, four months?"

"Do you have a reason to be here or are you just in desperate need of a gunshot wound?" I ask.

"Ah, krassavita," he says with a laugh. "I'm the messenger boy."

"Who's sending the message?"

"Mulder," Krycek replies. "He misses you, sweetheart."

"My name is Scully."

"And my name is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. Look, he wants to see you, but he's very sure you don't want to see him."

I look at him disbelievingly. "And you're telling me Mulder sent you to negotiate a meeting?" I ask.

"No. I came because I don't like Mulder when he's down. He doesn't eat and he  bounces his damn basketball until I want to kill him. Come on. Go and cheer him  up. Fuck him back to his senses."

I glare at him furiously. "No."

"Dammit, Scully, are we going to sit here until the end of the world? He needs  you. Don't you feel the least bit of compassion for him? If you don't want it to  be about me, fine. I'll drop you off and leave. But go."

"He seemed just fine when he left here."

"The honeymoon's over, and he's feeling moralistic again. I told you. He misses  you. Go."

"What part of no didn't you understand?"

He sneers. "God-fucking-damn. You are the most tedious bitch. If I have to, I'll knock you out and drag you over there myself, but I was hoping we could  be adults about this."

"Get a step closer and I'll blow your head off."

"Oh, and then Mulder will be depressed even more and you'll go to jail. Mom'll be so proud."

I shriek. Fuck Mulder, Alex Krycek is now the grand prize winner in the race to piss me off the most. "I'm not going to play your fucking games, Krycek!  If he wants to see me, he'll come himself!"

The door, which is just at the corner of my peripheral vision, starts to rattle.  Please God, don't let it be my mother, I think. Or my neighbor. Oh, shit-- just  let the door opening be my imagination. But of course, it's not. And who has  decided to show up? Oh. My. God.

"What the hell is going here?" Mulder asks. "Alex? Scully?"

Of course. Yeah, this is my life. Except now it's right around the second circle  of hell. I smile and nod at my ex- or not ex-- partner.

"Welcome home, Mulder."


End file.
